


Glory and Gore

by LikeCallsToLike



Category: One Direction (Band), Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Assassin Louis, Fluff and Smut, Liam is a thief, M/M, Niall is the Captain of the Guard, Prince Harry - Freeform, Smut, Violence, Zayn is an Asian Prince, a little bit of angst, and a lot of violence, like a lot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 10:09:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5824528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LikeCallsToLike/pseuds/LikeCallsToLike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis is the best Assassin of England, condemned to a whole life of slavery on the salt mines of Doncaster and with no other aspiration than living enough to see another sunrise when a royal visit changes his life completely. Harry is a haughty and spoiled prince who's decided to take Louis out of his misery and make him fight in a competition just for fun.<br/>Louis takes this opportunity with the only will of recovering his freedom until he meets a stern soldier that worries too much about everything, an Asian prince with a dark secret, and a merciless thief too kind for his own good.<br/>Or a Throne Of Glass AU with a lot more of smut and with Louis being the little shit that he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glory and Gore

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter comes almost entirely from Throne of Glass, by Sarah J. Maas, the book that inspires this story and that we totally recommend to read.  
> The title comes from a Lorde's song, and so do the quotes at the beginning of every chapter.  
> We will probably add more characters, but for now we only discuss about meaningless things.  
> We have more chapters of this fic published in Spanish, and we're translating them at the moment, but we apologize in advance for our negligence on the matter. We also apologize for the mistakes and errors that may appear on the translation.  
> This is our first fic, so we hope you enjoy it as much as we enjoy writing it (and arguing about how much angst would be too much angst).  
> Feel free to comment and give us your thoughts on this! And thanks for reading :)

                                                                                                                           

_The sun starts to light up when you’re walking home._

  
After a year of slavery in the Salt Mines of Doncaster, Louis Tomlinson was accustomed to being escorted everywhere in shackles and at sword-point. Most of the thousands of slaves in Doncaster received similar treatment—though an extra half-dozen guards always walked Louis to and from the mines. That was expected by England’s most notorious assassin. What he did not usually expect, however, was a hooded man in black at his side—as there was now.  
He gripped his arm as he led him through the shining building in which most of Doncaster’s officials and overseers were housed. They strode down corridors, up flights of stairs, and around and around until he hadn’t the slightest chance of finding his way out again.  
At least, that was his escort’s intention, because he hadn’t failed to notice when they went up and down the same staircase within a matter of minutes. Nor had he missed when they zigzagged between levels, even though the building was a standard grid of hallways and stairwells. As if he’d lose his bearings that easily. He might have been insulted if he wasn’t trying so hard.  
They entered a particularly long hallway, silent save for their footsteps. Though the man grasping his arm was tall and fit, he could see nothing of the features concealed beneath his hood. Another tactic meant to confuse and intimidate him. The black clothes were probably a part of it, too. His head shifted in his direction, and Louis flashed him a grin. He looked forward again, his iron grip tightening.  
It was flattering, he supposed, even if he didn’t know what was happening, or why he’d been waiting for him outside the mine shaft. After a day of cleaving rock salt from the innards of the mountain, finding him standing there with six guards hadn’t improved his mood.  
But his ears had pricked when he’d introduced himself to his overseer as Niall Horan, Captain of the Royal Guard, and suddenly, the sky loomed, the mountains pushed from behind, and even the earth swelled toward his knees. He hadn’t tasted fear in a while—hadn’t let himself taste fear. When he awoke every morning, he repeated the same words: I will not be afraid. For a year, those words had meant the difference between breaking and bending; they had kept him from shattering in the darkness of the mines. Not that he’d let the captain know any of that.  
Louis examined the gloved hand holding his arm. The dark leather almost matched the dirt on his skin.  
He adjusted his torn and filthy tunic with his free hand and held in his sigh. Entering the mines before sunrise and departing after dusk, he rarely glimpsed the sun. He was frightfully pale beneath the dirt. It was true that he had been attractive once, handsome even, but— well, it didn’t matter now, did it?  
They turned down another hallway, and he studied the stranger’s finely crafted sword. Its shimmering pommel was shaped like an eagle midflight. Noticing his stare, his gloved hand descended to rest upon its golden head. Another smile tugged at the corners of his lips.  
“You’re a long way from London, Captain,” he said, clearing his throat. “Did you come with the army I heard thumping around earlier?” he peered into the darkness beneath his hood but saw nothing. Still, he felt his eyes upon his face, judging, weighing, testing. He stared right back. The Captain of the Royal Guard would be an interesting opponent. Maybe even worthy of some effort on his part.  
Finally, the man raised his sword hand, and the folds of his cloak fell to conceal the blade. As his cloak shifted, he spied the gold wyvern embroidered on his tunic. The royal seal.  
“What do you care for the armies of England?” he replied. How lovely it was to hear a voice like his own—cool and articulate—even if he was a nasty brute!  
“Nothing,” He said, shrugging. He let out a low growl of annoyance.  
Oh, it’d be nice to see his blood spill across the marble. He’d lost his temper once before—once, when his first overseer chose the wrong day to push him too hard. He still remembered the feeling of embedding the pickax into his gut, and the stickiness of his blood on his hands and face. He could disarm two of these guards in a heartbeat. Would the captain fare better than his late overseer? Contemplating the potential outcomes, he grinned at him again.  
“Don’t you look at me like that,” he warned, and his hand drifted back toward his sword. Louis hid his smirk this time. They passed a series of wooden doors that he’d seen a few minutes ago. If he wanted to escape, he simply had to turn left at the next hallway and take the stairs down three flights. The only thing all the intended disorientation had accomplished was to familiarize him with the building. Idiots.  
“Where are we going again?” he said sweetly, brushing a strand of his matted hair from his face. When he didn’t reply, he clenched his jaw.  
The halls echoed too loudly for Louis to attack him without alerting the whole building. He hadn’t seen where he’d put the key to his irons, and the six guards who trailed them would be nuisances. Not to mention the shackles.  
They entered a hallway hung with iron chandeliers. Outside the windows lining the wall, night had fallen; lanterns kindled so bright they offered few shadows to hide in.  
From the courtyard, he could hear the other slaves shuffling toward the wooden building where they slept. The moans of agony amongst the clank of chains made a chorus as familiar as the dreary work songs they sang all day. The occasional solo of the whip added to the symphony of brutality England had created for its greatest criminals, poorest citizens, and latest conquests.  
While some of the prisoners were people accused of attempting to practice magic—not that they could, given that magic had vanished from the kingdom—these days, more and more rebels arrived at Doncaster. Most of them foreigners. But when he pestered them for news, many just stared at him with empty eyes. Already broken. He shuddered to consider what they’d endured at the hands of England’s forces. Some days, he wondered if they would have been better off dying on the butchering blocks instead. And if he might have been better off dying that night she’d been betrayed and captured, too.  
But he had other things to think about as they continued their walk. Was he finally to be hanged? Sickness coiled in him stomach. He was important enough to warrant an execution from the Captain of the Royal Guard himself. But why bring him inside this building first?  
At last, they stopped before a set of red-and-gold glass doors so thick that he couldn’t see through them. Captain Horan jerked his chin at the two guards standing on either side of the doors, and they stomped their spears in greeting.  
The captain’s grip tightened until it hurt. He yanked Louis closer, but his feet seemed made of lead and he pulled against him. “You’d rather stay in the mines?” he asked, sounding faintly amused.  
“Perhaps if I were told what this was all about, I wouldn’t feel so inclined to resist.”  
“You’ll find out soon enough.” him palms became sweaty. Yes, he was going to die. It had come at last.  
The doors groaned open to reveal a throne room. A glass chandelier shaped like a grapevine occupied most of the ceiling, spitting seeds of diamond fire onto the windows along the far side of the room. Compared to the bleakness outside those windows, the opulence felt like a slap to the face. A reminder of how much they profited from him labor.  
“In here,” the Captain of the Guard growled, and shoved him with his free hand, finally releasing him. Louis stumbled, his calloused feet slipping on the smooth floor as he straightened himself. He looked back to see another six guards appear.  
Fourteen guards, plus the captain. The gold royal emblem embroidered on the breast of black uniforms. These were members of the Royal Family’s personal guard: ruthless, lightning-swift soldiers trained from birth to protect and kill. He swallowed tightly.  
Lightheaded and immensely heavy all at once, Louis faced the room. On an ornate redwood throne sat a handsome young man. His heart stopped as everyone bowed.  
He was standing in front of the Crown Prince of England.

 

“Your Highness,” said the Captain of the Guard. He straightened from a low bow and removed his hood, revealing a great mop of blonde hair. The hood had definitely been meant to intimidate him into submission during their walk. As if that sort of trick could work on him. Despite his irritation, he blinked at the sight of his face. He was so young!  
“This is him?” the Crown Prince of England asked, and Louis’s head whipped around as the captain nodded. Both of them stared at him, waiting for him to bow. When he remained upright, Niall shifted on his feet, and the prince glanced at his captain before lifting his chin a bit higher.  
Bow to him indeed! If he were bound for the gallows, he would most certainly not spend the last moments of his life in groveling submission.  
Thundering steps issued from behind him, and someone grabbed him by the neck. Louis only glimpsed crimson cheeks and a sandy mustache before being thrown to the icy marble floor. Pain slammed through his face, light splintering his vision. His arms ached as his bound hands kept his joints from properly aligning.  
“That is the proper way to greet your future king,” a red-faced man snapped at Louis.  
The assassin hissed, baring his teeth as he twisted his head to look at the kneeling bastard. He was almost as large as his overseer, clothed in reds and oranges that matched his thinning hair. His obsidian eyes glittered as his grip tightened on his neck. If he could move his right arm just a few inches, he could throw him off balance and grab his sword . . . The shackles dug into his stomach, and fizzing, boiling rage turned his face scarlet.  
After a too-long moment, the Crown Prince spoke. “I don’t quite comprehend why you’d force someone to bow when the purpose of the gesture is to display allegiance and respect.” His words were coated with glorious boredom.  
Louis tried to pivot a free eye to the prince, but could only see a pair of black leather boots against the white floor.  
“It’s clear that you respect me, Duke Perrington, but it’s a bit unnecessary to put such effort into forcing Louis Tomlinson to have the same opinion. You and I know very well he has no love for my family. So perhaps your intent is to humiliate him.” He paused, and he could have sworn his eyes fell on his face. “But I think he’s had enough of that.” He stopped for another moment, then asked: “Don’t you have a meeting with Doncaster’s treasurer? I wouldn’t want you to be late, especially when you came all this way to meet with him.”  
Understanding the dismissal, his tormentor grunted and released him. Louis peeled his cheek from the marble but lay on the floor until he stood and left. If he managed to escape, perhaps he’d hunt down this Duke Perrington fellow and return the warmth of his greeting.  
As he rose, he frowned at the imprint of grit he left behind on the otherwise spotless floor, and at the clank of his shackles echoing through the silent room. But he’d been trained to be an assassin since the age of eight, since the day the King of the Assassins found him half-dead on the banks of a frozen river and brought him to his keep. He wouldn’t be humiliated by anything, least of all being dirty. Gathering his pride,he lifted his head. His eyes met those of the prince.  
Harry Styles smiled at him. It was a polished smile, and reeked of court-trained charm. Sprawled across the throne, he had his chin propped by a hand, his golden crown glinting in the soft light. On his black doublet, an emblazoned gold rendering of the royal wyvern occupied the entirety of the chest. His red cloak fell gracefully around him and his throne.  
Yet there was something in his eyes, strikingly green—the color of the waters of the southern countries—and the way they contrasted with his chocolate curls that made him pause. He was achingly handsome, and couldn’t have been older than twenty.  
Princes are not supposed to be handsome! They’re sniveling, stupid, repulsive creatures! This one . . . this . . . How unfair of him to be royal and beautiful.  
He shifted on his feet as he frowned, surveying him in turn. “I thought I asked you to clean him,” he said to Captain Horan, who stepped forward. He’d forgotten there was anyone else in the room. He looked at his rags and stained skin, and he couldn’t suppress the twinge of shame. What a miserable state for a boy of former beauty!  
Louis had that kind of security that was only reserved for those who, since a young age, had enjoyed all kinds of luxuries and whims. His deep blue eyes shone with a shrewdness that contrasted sharply with the innocence of his delicate features, and his disheveled hair gave him a juvenile aura that had nothing to do with the majesty of his elegant mien.  
But now, standing before Harry Styles as little more than a gutter rat! His face warmed as Captain Horan spoke. “I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”  
The Crown Prince shook his head when Niall reached for him. “Don’t bother with the bath just yet. I can see his potential.” The prince straightened, keeping his attention on Louis. “I don’t believe that we’ve ever had the pleasure of an introduction. But, as you probably know, I’m Harry Styles, Crown Prince of England, perhaps now Crown Prince of most of Europe.”  
He ignored the surge and crash of bitter emotions that awoke with the name.  
“And you’re Louis Tomlinson, England’s greatest assassin. Perhaps the greatest assassin in all of Europe.” He studied his tensed body before he raised his dark, well-groomed brows. “You seem a little young.” He rested his elbows on his thighs. “I’ve heard some rather fascinating stories about you. How do you find Doncaster after living in such excess in London?”  
Arrogant ass.  
“I couldn’t be happier,” he crooned as his jagged nails cut into his palms.  
“After a year, you seem to be more or less alive. I wonder how that’s possible when the average life expectancy in these mines is a month.”  
“Quite a mystery, I’m sure.” he batted his eyelashes and readjusted his shackles as if they were lace gloves.  
The Crown Prince turned to his captain. “He has somewhat of a tongue, doesn’t he? And he doesn’t sound like a member of the rabble.”  
“I should hope not!” Louis interjected.  
“Your Highness,” Niall Horan snapped at him.  
“What?” Louis asked.  
“You will address him as ‘Your Highness.’ ”  
Louis gave him a mocking smile, and then returned his attention to the prince.  
Harry Styles, to his surprise, laughed. “You do know that you’re now a slave, don’t you? Has your sentence taught you nothing?”  
Had his arms been unshackled, he would have crossed them. “I don’t see how working in a mine can teach anything beyond how to use a pickax.”  
“And you never tried to escape?”  
A slow, wicked smile spread across his lips. “Once.”  
The prince’s brows rose, and he turned to Captain Horan. “I wasn’t told that.”  
Louis glanced over his shoulder at Niall, who gave his prince an apologetic look. “The Chief Overseer informed me this afternoon that there was one incident. Three months—”  
“Four months,” he interrupted.  
“Four months,” Niall said, “after Tomlinson arrived, he attempted to flee.”  
He waited for the rest of the story, but he was clearly finished. “That’s not even the best part!”  
“There’s a ‘best part’?” the Crown Prince said, face caught between a wince and a smile.  
Niall glared at him before speaking. “There’s no hope of escaping from Doncaster. Your father made sure that each of Doncaster’s sentries could shoot a squirrel from two hundred paces away. To attempt to flee is suicide.”  
“But you’re alive,” the prince said to him.  
Louis’s smile faded as the memory struck him. “Yes.”  
“What happened?” Harry asked.  
His eyes turned cold and hard. “I snapped.”  
“That’s all you have to offer as an explanation for what you did?” Captain Horan demanded. “He killed his overseer and twenty-three sentries before they caught him. He was a fingertip from the wall before the guards knocked him unconscious.”  
“So?” Harry said.  
Louis seethed. “So? Do you know how far the wall is from the mines?” He gave him a blank look. He closed his eyes and sighed dramatically. “From my shaft, it was three hundred sixty-three feet. I had someone measure it.”  
“So?” Harry repeated.  
“Captain Horan, how far do slaves make it from the mines when they try to escape?”  
“Three feet,” he muttered. “Doncaster sentries usually shoot a man down before he’s moved three feet.”  
The Crown Prince’s silence was not his desired effect. “You knew it was suicide,” he said at last, the amusement gone.  
Perhaps it had been a bad idea for him to bring up the wall. “Yes,” he said.  
“But they didn’t kill you.”  
“Your father ordered that I was to be kept alive for as long as possible—to endure the misery that Doncaster gives in abundance.” A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature went through him. “I never intended to escape.” The pity in his eyes made him want to hit him.  
“Do you bear many scars?” asked the prince. He shrugged and he smiled, forcing the mood to lift as he stepped from the dais. “Turn around, and let me view your back.” Louis frowned, but obeyed as he walked to him, Niall stepping closer. “I can’t make them out clearly through all this dirt,” the prince said, inspecting what skin showed through the scraps of his shirt. He scowled, and scowled even more when he said, “And what a terrible stench, too!”  
“When one doesn’t have access to a bath and perfume, I suppose one cannot smell as finely as you, Your Highness.”  
The Crown Prince clicked his tongue and circled him slowly. Niall—and all the guards—watched them with hands on their swords. As they should. In less than a second, he could get his arms over the prince’s head and have his shackles crushing his windpipe. It might be worth it just to see the expression on Niall’s face. But the prince went on, oblivious to how dangerously close he stood to him. Perhaps he should be insulted. “From what I can see,” he said, “there are three large scars—and perhaps some smaller ones. Not as awful as I expected, but . . . well, the tunics can cover it, I suppose.”  
“Tunics?” He was standing so near that he could see the fine thread detail on his jacket, and smelled not perfume, but horses and iron.  
Harry grinned. “What remarkable eyes you have! And how angry you are!”  
Coming within strangling distance of the Crown Prince of England, son of the man who sentenced him to a slow, miserable death, his self-control balanced on a fragile edge—dancing along a cliff.  
“I demand to know,” he began, but the Captain of the Guard pulled him back from the prince with spine-snapping force. “I wasn’t going to kill him, you buffoon.”  
“Watch your mouth before I throw you back in the mines,” the blue-eyed captain said.  
“Oh, I don’t think you’d do that.”  
“And why is that?” Niall replied.  
Harry strode to his throne and sat down, his emerald eyes bright.  
He looked from one man to another and squared his shoulders. “Because there’s something you want from me, something you want badly enough to come here yourselves. I’m not an idiot, though I was foolish enough to be captured, and I can see that this is some sort of secret business. Why else would you leave the capital and venture this far? You’ve been testing me all this time to see if I am physically and mentally sound. Well, I know that I’m still sane, and that I’m not broken, despite what the incident at the wall might suggest. So I demand to be told why you’re here, and what services you wish of me, if I’m not destined for the gallows.”  
The men exchanged glances. Harry steepled his fingers. “I have a proposition for you.”  
Her chest tightened. Never, not in his most fanciful dreams, had he imagined that the opportunity to speak with Harry Styles would arise. He could kill him so easily, tear that grin from his face . . . he could destroy the king as he had destroyed him . . .  
But perhaps his proposition could lead to escape. If he got beyond the wall, he could make it. Run and run and disappear into the mountains and live in solitude in the dark green of the wild, with a pine-needle carpet and a blanket of stars overhead. He could do it. He just needed to clear the wall. He had come so close before . . .  
“I’m listening,” was all he said.

 

The prince’s eyes shone with amusement at his brashness but lingered a bit too long on his body. Louis could have raked his nails down his face for staring at him like that, yet the fact that he’d even bother to look when he was in such a filthy state . . . A slow smile spread across his face.  
The prince crossed his long legs. “Leave us,” he ordered the guards. “Niall, stay where you are.”  
Louis stepped closer as the guards shuffled out, shutting the door. Foolish, foolish move. But Niall’s face remained unreadable. He couldn’t honestly believe he’d contain him if he tried to escape! He straightened his spine. What were they planning that would make them so irresponsible?  
The prince chuckled. “Don’t you think it’s risky to be so bold with me when your freedom is on the line?”  
Of all the things he could have said, that was what he had least expected. “My freedom?” At the sound of the word, he saw a land of pine and snow, of sun-bleached cliffs and white-capped seas, a land where light was swallowed in the velvety green of bumps and hollows—a land that he had forgotten.  
“Yes, your freedom. So, I highly suggest, Mister Tomlinson, that you get your arrogance in check before you end up back in the mines.” The prince uncrossed his legs. “Though perhaps your attitude will be useful. I’m not going to pretend that my father’s empire was built on trust and understanding. But you already know that.” his fingers curled as he waited for him to continue. His eyes met his, probing, intent. “My father has gotten it into his head that he needs a Champion.”  
It took a delicious moment for him to understand.  
Louis tipped back his head and laughed. “Your father wants me to be his Champion? What—don’t tell me that he’s managed to eliminate every noble soul out there! Surely there’s one chivalrous knight, one lord of steadfast heart and courage.”  
“Mind your mouth,” Niall warned from beside him.  
“What about you, hmm?” he said, raising his brows at the captain. Oh, it was too funny! He—the King’s Champion! “Our beloved king finds you lacking?”  
The captain put a hand on his sword. “If you’d be quiet, you’d hear the rest of what His Highness has to tell you.”  
He faced the prince. “Well?”  
Harry leaned back in his throne. “My father needs someone to aid the empire—someone to help him maneuver around difficult people.”  
“You mean he needs a lackey for his dirty work.”  
“If you want to put it that bluntly, then, yes,” the prince said. “His Champion would keep his opponents quiet.”  
“As quiet as the grave,” he said sweetly.  
A smile tugged on Harry’s lips, but he kept his face straight. “Yes.”  
To work for the King of England as his loyal servant. He raised his chin. To kill for him—to be a fang in the mouth of the beast that had already consumed half of Europe . . . “And if I accept?”  
“Then, after six years, he’ll grant you your freedom.”  
“Six years!” But the word “freedom” echoed through him once more.  
“If you decline,” Harry said, anticipating his next question, “you’ll remain in Doncaster.” His sapphire eyes became hard, and he swallowed. And die here was what he didn’t need to add.  
Six years as the king’s crooked dagger . . . or a lifetime in Doncaster.  
“However,” the prince said, “there’s a catch.” He kept his face neutral as he toyed with a ring on his finger. “The position isn’t being offered to you. Yet. My father thought to have a bit of fun. He’s hosting a competition. He invited twenty-three members of his council to each sponsor a would-be Champion to train in the glass castle and ultimately compete in a duel. Were you to win,” he said with a half smile, “you’d officially be England’s Assassin.”  
He didn’t return his smile. “Who, exactly, are my competitors?”  
Seeing his expression, the prince’s grin faded. “Thieves and assassins and warriors from across Europe.” He opened his mouth, but he cut him off. “If you win, and prove yourself both skilled and trustworthy, my father has sworn to grant you your freedom. And, while you’re his Champion, you’ll receive a considerable salary.”  
He barely heard his last few words. A competition! Against some nobody men from the-gods-knew-where! And assassins! “What other assassins?” he demanded.  
“None that I’ve heard of. None as famous as you. And that reminds me—maybe you want to keep your identity undercover.”  
“What?”  
“Compete under an alias. I don’t suppose you heard about what happened after your trial.”  
“News is rather hard to come by when you’re slaving in a mine.”  
Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “No one knows that Louis Tomlinson is just a young man—they all thought you were far older.”  
“What?” he asked again, his face flushing. “How is that possible?” he should be proud that he’d kept it hidden from most of the world, but . . .  
“You kept your identity a secret all the years you were running around killing everyone. After your trial, my father thought it would be . . . wise not to inform Europe who you are. He wants to keep it that way. What would our enemies say if they knew we’d all been petrified of a boy?”  
“So I’m slaving in this miserable place for a name and title that don’t even belong to me? Who does everyone think England’s Assassin really is?”  
“I don’t know, nor do I entirely care. But I do know that you were the best, and that people still whisper when they mention your name.” He fixed him with a stare. “If you’re willing to fight for me, to be my Champion during the months the competition will go on, I’ll see to it that my father frees you after five years.”  
Though he tried to conceal it, he could see the tension in his body. He wanted him to say yes. Needed him to say yes so badly he was willing to bargain with him. His eyes began glittering. “What do you mean, ‘were the best’?”  
“You’ve been in Doncaster for a year. Who knows what you’re still capable of?”  
“I’m capable of quite a lot, thank you,” he said, picking at his jagged nails. He tried not to cringe at all the dirt beneath them. When was the last time his hands had been clean?  
“That remains to be seen,” Harry said. “You’ll be told the details of the competition when we arrive in London.”  
“Despite the amount of fun you nobles will have betting on us, this competition seems unnecessary. Why not just hire me already?”  
“As I just said, you must prove yourself worthy.”  
He put a hand on his hip, and his chains rattled loudly through the room. “Well, I think being England’s Assassin exceeds any sort of proof you might need.”  
“Yes,” Niall said, his sapphire eyes flashing. “It proves that you’re a criminal, and that we shouldn’t immediately trust you with the king’s private business.”  
“I give my solemn oa—”  
“I doubt that the king would take the word of England’s Assassin as bond.”  
“Yes, but I don’t see why I have to go through the training and the competition. I mean, I’m bound to be a bit . . . out of shape, but . . . what else do you expect when I have to make do with rocks and pickaxes in this place?” he gave Niall a spiteful glance.  
Harry frowned. “So, you won’t take the offer?”  
“Of course I’m going to take the offer,” he snapped. His wrists chafed against his shackles badly enough that his eyes watered. “I’ll be your absurd Champion if you agree to free me in three years, not five.”  
“Four.”  
“Fine,” he said. “It’s a bargain. I might be trading one form of slavery for another, but I’m not a fool.”  
He could win back his freedom. Freedom. He felt the cold air of the wide-open world, the breeze that swept from the mountains and carried him away. He could live far from London, the capital that had once been his realm.  
“Hopefully you’re right,” Harry replied. “And hopefully, you’ll live up to your reputation. I anticipate winning, and I won’t be pleased if you make me look foolish.”  
“And what if I lose?”  
The gleam vanished from his eyes as he said: “You’ll be sent back here, to serve out the remainder of your sentence.”  
Louis’s lovely visions exploded like dust from a slammed book. “Then I might as well leap from the window. A year in this place has worn me through—imagine what will happen if I return. I’d be dead by my second year.” He tossed his head. “Your offer seems fair enough.”  
“Fair enough indeed,” Harry said, and waved a hand at Niall. “Take him to his rooms and clean him up.” He fixed him with a stare. “We depart for London in the morning. Don’t disappoint me, Tomlinson.”  
It was nonsense, of course. How difficult could it be to outshine, outsmart, and then obliterate his competitors? He didn’t smile, for he knew that if he did, it would open him to a realm of hope that had long been closed. But still, he felt like seizing the prince and dancing. He tried to think of music, tried to think of a celebratory tune, but could only recall a solitary line from the mournful bellowing of the work songs, deep and slow like honey poured from a jar: “And go home at last . . .”  
He didn’t notice when Captain Horan led him away, nor did he notice when they walked down hall after hall.  
Yes, he would go—to London, to anywhere, even through the Gates of Hell itself, if it meant freedom.  
After all, you aren’t England’s Assassin for nothing.


End file.
